Page 6

“Then hurry back to help me freshen up,” she demanded. “Bring my rosewater and rice powder when you return.”

Rosewater and rice powder?

What?

Joy paused at the doorway, casting a puzzled glance at her mistress. “Are you expecting a guest?”

Mrs. Thackpenny rarely entertained. Except for the trio of equally contentious cronies who arrived every second Tuesday for a vicious gossip session. God help any ton member they choose to target and shred with their sharp tongues. Joy tried to make herself invisible in a dingy corner, though her ears burned at their blistering rumors and nasty conjectures.

Already stretched to her limit with her cooking and housekeeping responsibilities, Mrs. Wilkie would be hard-pressed to procure biscuits and sandwiches—don’t forget the peach tarts—on such short notice.

Since when had Mrs. Thackpenny developed a penchant for peach tarts, of all things?

Her employer cocked her head, and with her wire-rimmed spectacles low on her narrow nose, reminded Joy very much of a quizzical bird.

Except birds didn’t look nearly so self-satisfied.

Or wily.

Uneasiness tiptoed across Joy’s back from one shoulder to the other.

Precisely what was the scheming woman up to?

Mrs. Thackpenny fluttered a knotted, blue-veined hand to the grayish-silver curls framing her face that her black lace cap didn’t quite conceal.

“Oh, dear me.” She waved her hand and, giving a coquettish smile, fluttered her eyelashes. “Did I forget to mention Doctor Morrisette is attending me at half-past two?”

Good Lord. Doctor Morrisette?

The very man Joy held in foolish, secret esteem?

Ah, he must have a particular fondness for peach tarts.

“I mentioned his visit to Mrs. Wilkie this morning, so she is aware.” Mrs. Thackpenny patted her frail chest with a knobby hand. “My cough has worsened, and I fear I may very well be on the brink of lung fever.”

Lung fever? Joy nearly rolled her eyes. If she is on the brink of lung fever, then I am Viscountess Castlereagh.

Cough. Cough. Cough.

Mrs. Thackpenny proceeded to produce a trio of dry, obviously contrived hacks to emphasize her point. “The good doctor simply insisted upon another visit.”

And camels dance the minuet.

Joy’s gaze flew to the cobalt blue-based ormolu mantle clock.

Five minutes to two.

So much for stealing a few minutes outside.

“I shall return directly.”

Keeping her face impassive, Joy gave a small nod before sweeping from the chilly salon. Once in the corridor, she hoisted her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. At best, she’d have ten minutes to improve her appearance before she must return to help Mrs. Thackpenny preen for her esteemed guest.

Flannery could deliver the spoiled puss to his manipulating mistress.

Doctor Morrisette—Lord Brandon Gorgeous Morrisette—the third son of a marquess, possessed a devastating smile, which caused her stomach to flip-flop like a panicked trout upon a lake embankment. His arresting deep brown eyes and the shock of dark blond hair that fell rakishly over his brow further enhanced his good looks.

No doctor should be so devastatingly handsome. It couldn’t possibly be good for his patients’ hearts. Why, Joy would wager her small savings, half his clients—the female half—suffered heart palpitations or paroxysms from his presence.